


self-directed evolution

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: true trans soul rebel [1]
Category: Orphan Black (TV), True Detective
Genre: (because i'm just Extra like that), Abusive Parents, Affection, Bisexual Male Character, Canonical Character Death (Sammy: mentioned), Character Study, Crossover (Orphan Black centric), Drabble, Drug Addiction, Dysphoria (mentioned), Fanart (in final chapter), Gangs, Genital dysphoria, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Marijuana, Mastectomy Scars, Multi, Oneshot, Oral Sex, Post-Episode S02E08, Prostitution, Trans Male Character, Transitioning (mentioned), Transphobia, Vaginal Sex, Violence, chapter titles taken from Garth Liddiard's Strange Tourist album
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: “I’m me,” he murmured aloud, gazing up into fluorescent bus lights, “I’m me, and there's nobody else like me.”A Tony Sawicki-centric crossover fic.





	1. it's too hard to row a boat using a periscope

Tony reclined in the bus, head lolling back, mouth opening in a long sigh. The fabric of his seat was scratchy, fibres digging into his skin when he arched his neck. Shit, he needed a smoke so goddam bad, but that wasn’t an option. Too many fucking eyes, too many people that would develop _opinions_ about him if he lit up and had a good, sweet lungful of dope. The idea was to remain anonymous, to disappear back into the woodwork.

He spread his thighs, hand dangling down between his legs. Buildings and graffiti sped past in flashes of colour, the night outside dark and murky with city lights. Tony didn’t really know where he was going, just that he was  _going._ It wasn’t a new story. It wasn’t a new situation. But the _threat_ was new.

He thought of the girl named Sarah.

Meeting her had been like standing in front of a mirror into the fucking past, and (though he'd hid it at the time) it had _hurt._ But Sarah wasn’t just a nightmarish reflection, she was a person made of flesh and blood and genetics, with the same hazel-green eyes that Tony had been captivated by his entire life– captivated because, throughout all the changes and transitioning, his eyes had always been the constant. The window to his soul, the proof that his identity was concrete even when his body was in stasis.

It was a good thing he’d met Sarah _now_. A year ago, when the testosterone hadn’t yet taken hold, he wouldn’t have been able to cope. He’d have punched Sarah between the eyes and taken off before the pain could rip him in two. He’d have gone into a tailspin, dissolved himself into a bender, cried on the bathroom floor for a week as all his mother’s shame came back to hurt him, crippled by dysphoria and doubt.

But he was better than that now.

He was stable.

He could, and he _would,_ cope with this. Who gave a fuck if he was a clone? Like he’d said to Sarah, there was only one Tony Sawicki, and he’d chosen that name himself so he _knew_ that was the case. He was a self-made man. A unique fucking individual.

“I’m me,” he murmured aloud, gazing up into fluorescent bus lights, “I’m me, and there's nobody else like me.”

He was running again. Just him and the road, endless opportunity.

It felt good.

 

***

 

The bus stopped for half an hour so that the driver could take a piss and the passengers could grab some food. Tony wandered to a shitty diner, ate a decent portion of deep-fried food, and licked his fingers clean. He left a tip and went back to the restroom, revelling in the small thrill he got whenever cisgender motherfuckers didn’t give him dirty looks for coming into the men’s bathroom.

He stood in front of a cracked mirror, the overhead lights flickering, turning his face into something mysterious, something… otherworldly. The diner’s warbling country soundtrack was blurred and distant, only serving to emphasise the silence as Tony breathed deep. His heart was beating fast.

There was a certain kind of adrenaline that came with being on the run.

After another man left, still zipping up his fly, Tony went and locked the bathroom door closed, glancing inside all the stalls to make sure nobody else was there. He took out his phone and crushed it under his boot, keeping his new one safely stashed in his back pocket. He snapped his stolen credit card in half, dropped it in the bin along with the phone. With every item he broke and discarded, he was disappearing. He was disconnecting from the grid, vanishing like the pro he was. He’d never been caught by trackers, not once; this was what he did. This was who he was.

When he was done, he paused, glancing towards the locked bathroom door. It was the middle of the night, so he was safe in assuming nobody would be demanding to come inside anytime soon.

He unzipped his jacket, dropped it on the cold concrete floor. Then off came his flannel, his long-sleeved shirt, and the singlet beneath.

The icy air made the fragile hairs on his skin stand up, but he lifted his chin high. Stared with unwavering pride at the scars that stretched from his underarms to the lower part of his sternum. The light continued to flicker, and he smiled. He was in the mood to start a fight, he was in the mood to grunt and swing his fists and  _feel_ how much of a man he was. This was what he lived for. The rush. The near escapes, the thrill of the journey.

“Yeah,” he drawled, “yeah, you’re a fucking badass, Tony. You got this shit. You're a _motherfucker._ ”

He got dressed again, licked at his lips and gave himself a wink in the mirror.

He was going to be fine.

 

 

 


	2. a beauty in her youth

He shacked up with a chick he’d met a while back, the kind of girl that looked like a skeleton wearing wax. She was a junkie, plain and simple, which meant she was awfully good at staying underground and keeping away from the cops. She had no outstanding charges and no record ( _yet,_ it was only a matter of time), so Tony figured she’d be a good bet for temporary safety. He wasn’t stupid, though. He didn’t plan to stick around and fall in love, god fucking forbid- christ, the _smell_ was bad enough that he didn’t think he could if he wanted to. She’d eventually have people knocking on her door, looking to get cash or drugs (or something even worse) from her, and he couldn’t play the hero. People choose their own paths, and she’d committed to hers long ago. He couldn’t change that. He couldn’t change _shit_. Best he could do was look out for himself and make her feel good for a while.

Her name was Shona.

He liked her well enough to put up with her, well enough to be gentle when he guided her back onto the stained mattress and got to work between her stick thin legs. She was desperate and clinging, but used to impermanence; she’d stick to him like a limpet for as long as she could, and then accept his absence with the tired tolerance of a lifelong floater.

She was a shivering wreck, exactly the kind of girl that Tony liked (she made him feel _strong)._ Normal people, comparatively, scared the fuck out of him. There were all kinds of vicious, blackened things pumping beneath the skins of well-adjusted suburbanites, and he’d much prefer that violence be out in the open. At least junkies were _honest._ And he wasn’t stupid enough to trust anyone, which meant he was safe running with dealers and pimps and killers.

They were, after all, his people.

“Shit, Tony,” she whimpered, words hitching and shaking, like a sob hovering somewhere in her throat. Her torso seized and shuddered, Tony’s tongue as expert as ever, driving her towards orgasm. It was pretty much standard for him. He knew how to make a gal feel good. His pre-transition confusion had driven him, initially, into believing he was a butch lesbian, so he’d gotten awful good at working pussies.

He toyed with a box of cigarettes as he swirled his tongue around, keen for a smoke. She came, crying out (like her _soul_ was being yanked out of her chest), and he lingered for a moment, sucking at her until she pushed him away. Then he straightened up, knees parted on the mattress, already putting a cigarette in his mouth (the taste didn’t bother him). She lay still and panted, ribs prominent beneath her skin, hips sunken and sharp.

He lit up and watched her, dragging his hair off his back and tying it up. She seemed dazed, euphoric, and confused in the aftermath.

“Cook us up a shot, Tony,” she mumbled, words loose and inarticulate.

Tony chuckled, low and calm. “I don’t do that shit, love. You want anything stronger than dope, you’re gonna hafta get it yourself.”

She glared up at him, and he raised his eyebrows dryly.

Yeah, she couldn’t try shit with him, no mistake. No whining, no bartering, no _please go down and get some smack from my dealer, yeah babe?_

She must’ve seen the cold resolve in his eyes, so she struggled up off the mattress, thin body curling and slumping like a puppet with its strings cut. Her hair, thin and oily, fell down across her neck and chest, breasts hanging limply. She might’ve been beautiful once.

He offered her the cigarette as a consolation. She took it, a weirdly intense look of gratitude softening her face. He didn’t want to be cruel to her, and she was grateful for that.

“…I’m gonna go get a beer, hit up a bar. Call me when you’re done.”

He stood, taking his pack of cigarettes with him. It was a lie, of course. He wasn’t stupid enough to hang out in a public place when he was on the run. (His plans were pretty much limited to lurking in the shadows and surveying the street for any of the suits who’d killed Sammy.) Tony knew Shona was a heroin addict, and he didn’t want to be there when she shot up. He'd lost too many friends to smack, seen one too many overdoses.

"You could have some too, if you wanted," she offered meekly.

He walked out. 

 


	3. a well of sweet vermouth

When Tony came back, Shona was passed out on that scratchy mattress. He gave her prone form a tired glance before wandering over and turning her onto her side. Despite the alarming lifelessness of her thin body in the darkness, she was still breathing. Not an overdose, then.

“Damn, girl,” he sighed, absentmindedly brushing some hair off her face.

He left her there, went to the kitchen. The place was cluttered with jars, bottles, cans, and used needles– it wasn’t warm, comforting mess, like Felix’s apartment. It was grimy and repellent. But fuck, it would have to do. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He opened up her fridge, coughed at the smell of rotten fruit. The fridge had obviously turned off at some point when she’d run out of cash to keep up with rent payments. Tony grabbed a bottle out of the fridge door, sniffed suspiciously at the noxiously clear liquid it contained. Vodka. Fuck, Shona had probably distilled it herself. Certainly smelled poisonous enough.

He shrugged and poured himself a glass.

 

***

 

The sun rose up over the cityscape like a giant, inconsiderate fucking lightbulb, and Tony glared defiantly at it. His hangover pulsed beneath his skin like a tick, like an _itch,_ and he wanted to scratch at his temples hard enough to reach bone. His brain was on fire and he couldn’t think straight. Vodka. Dope. _Sleeplessness._ A recipe for suffering.

“Y’awake, babe?”

He turned his head, neck unhinged and floating, skull disconnected from his body. Shona was standing in the middle of her kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt like some goddamn magazine model, lingerie cheap and threadbare against her sickly pale skin. Her hair was done up in a messy bun, just the way Tony liked it, but the resulting look was a sad one. Her limbs were too thin, too bony, too anorexic, and her mascara-rimmed eyes were bloodshot. Still, she was pottering around, trying to make an effort (his head _ached_ with every single noise); she’d cleared space enough to use the stove, and was making what appeared to be scrambled eggs. Tony wrinkled up his face, nauseous at the sight of yellowy-grey lumps of food. It was gooey and wet in the morning light.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he mumbled, rubbing at his face, “I’m up.”

“You want some breakfast?”

Her voice was too high-pitched and grating for Tony’s hangover. He blinked slowly and tried to breathe without hurling.

“Nah. Your vodka knocked me out real good. Got me all fucked up.” Tony waved vaguely at his head, shifted uncomfortably where he was sprawled on Shona’s couch. His back hurt like a _motherfucker._

“You want me to fix you a coffee? I make good coffee.”

She sounded desperate. Pleading. He knew why.

“Listen,” he exhaled, long and patient, before craning his neck over to look her dead in the eyes, “you fucked up, last I was here. I had to drag your ass to the hospital. That ain’t gonna happen again, is it?”

She seemed to shrink in on herself, thin shoulders curling forwards into a frightened hunch. Yeah, he was being hard with her. But she was a junkie. And he couldn’t be dealing with another overdose now, not while he was on the run.

“No, Tony,” she said, voice childlike and small.

“Good. Then we ain’t gotta discuss _nothin’,_ yeah?" He let his voice soften. "I’m chill, babe. You don’t hafta prove shit to me.”

She smiled, tucked some hair behind her ear. “Thanks.”

He grinned back at her, knew he’d be getting some head later. Just because he knew she was watching, he pulled off his shirt and started on his fly.

“Think I might take a shower.”

He reached down into his bag, rummaged around for some clothes. She hesitated, toying with a strand of hair, looking him up and down. Biting her lip. Trying to be sexy. And, what the fuck, it worked.

“Eat your breakfast, babe,” he winked, pulling off his pants.

With that, he went off to go assess the state of her bathroom.

 

 


	4. the ambulance is running late

Shona liked to be touched.

She was a broken thing, all angles and pale skin, long eyelashes and sharp bones. _Like an ostrich_ , Tony mused silently, lying back as she moved against him. He swirled his thumb in slow, easy circles, right where he knew she would feel good. She twitched and shuddered, always inches away from crying, always second away from melting into incomprehensible emotion. He could take here there, make her reach that point. And he _would,_ every time.

“God,” she whispered, “God, Tony.”

Tony chuckled, flatly and without humour. “God, sweetheart, don’t have shit to do with this.”

She groaned, mouthed wetly at his collarbone. His fingers rubbed gently, firmly, slick noises filling the air. He could feel himself getting wet beneath his underwear, but she knew better than to try and touch him there. She knew better than to touch him like he was a _woman._

“I want you to fuck me,” she breathed.

He almost stilled, almost froze, because he heard the implication behind those words. He knew that Shona, despite her own personal devastation, was intelligent enough to see through his bravado. And sometimes he _forgot_ that he was trans. Sometimes he _forgot_ how far he’d come, and fuck, for a second there he’d actually been enjoying himself.

“One day, when you have one of those operations, what’re they called-”

“Phalloplasty.” Tony replied, only just managing to keep his voice steady. He swallowed thickly, kept his eyes trained on the ceiling as Shona jerked her hips against his palm, seeking her own release.

“Yeah, yeah, one of those. Want you to fuck me, Tony. Like the man you are.” She groaned, ducked her head down to kiss the scars on his chest. He flinched, a recoil that shivered through his whole body. “I want you _inside_ me, Tony. God, you’re so- oh _fuck-_ ”

He shifted his angle slightly, intent on getting her off faster just to _shut her up_. He clenched his jaw, reminded himself that Shona hadn’t _meant_ to upset him. In fact, she’d probably intended the opposite. She’d always treated him like a man, always respected him. But she wasn’t trans. She didn’t know how sensitive the topic of transitioning was to him. How it just reminded him what he _didn’t_ have.

“Ton- Tony, oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit-_ ”

He twisted his fingers, just so. Had her coming, a litany of curses and gasps falling from her spit-red lips. Like corrupted prayers, broken pleas.

He held her against him, arm against her jutting spine, feeling her ribcage bow and expand, trying to convince himself she hadn’t meant to be so goddamn tactless. Her breasts pillowed against his chest, and the vulnerable femininity of her body seemed to reassure him. Seemed to heal the sting somewhat. He wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like her anymore. He didn’t have that _body_ holding him back.

She fell limp, and he didn’t have the heart to hate her. She was too fucked up. And, what the hell, she was trying, wasn’t she?

That was more than anyone else had given him.

 

 


	5. where did all the fury go, when she held me like i was her son?

Five days passed.

Tony didn’t entirely have a concept of those days passing, however, because he spent most of those days on edge and not sleeping, or off his face on dope and cheap alcohol. He knew he shouldn’t have been so careless, but what the fuck, Shona was good company. He’d _missed_  having somebody to hang out with, especially since losing Sammy. Felix had been fun, but Tony had always felt compelled to _perform_ around men. Around women, it was easier. Easier to revel in his obvious masculinity, and not compare himself to anybody else. He and Shona smoked, fucked, and talked; and it was _fantastic_ in a way Tony hadn’t experienced for years. No strings attached. Just two lowlifes having a good time.

But then something changed.

On the sixth morning, he woke up and Shona was curled against him.

Her hair looked soft in the morning light, the sun painting a stripe over her peaceful face. Her eyelids flickered gently in her sleep, and the strap of her bra had come askew; she looked, for the first time since Tony had met her, genuinely gorgeous. A blush, caused by a combination of dehydration and drug use, bloomed over her cheeks and made her look younger. Made her look demure, soft, _pretty._

And her hand was curled around his. Her fingers were limp now, but it was obvious that she’d been holding his hand when she collapsed down next to him and passed out.

 _Shit,_ Tony thought miserably. He let his head fall back down onto the mattress, dragging a hand through his hair and sighing. He’d come here because he'd thought Shona was unattached to him in any way further than the occasional fuck fest. He’d always been going to leave, and staying here for a long time had never been in the cards. Shona should’ve _known_ that.

This was the last thing he’d wanted.

Worse still, he was tempted to stay. Tempted to be with her in the way that she so clearly wanted. But he remembered Sammy's death, the way he had gone from  _Sammy_ to  _an empty body_ in a pulse of moment. It had left Tony shaken. Driven him to cry, even. And Tony did not cry.

Ever.

So he thought about Shona's death. He thought about the way she'd struggle, helpless and heroin-limp when they came. He thought about seeing her eyes glassy and lifeless, and knew he had to leave.

Tony slid out from under her, decision made, and briefly considered leaving her a note.

He decided against it.

 

 


	6. he fails to do his best to be indifferent

The first thing Tony needed was money.

This wasn’t a hard obstacle to surmount, because if there was one thing Tony was good at, it was stealing. He’d only been caught once and the fact was hardly enough to dent his pride, because he’d been nineteen and pre-transition at the time (and so psychologically impaired from his parent’s shit that he’d been _incapable_ of handling himself right). He’d learned a great deal since then.

First, he checked the newspaper ads for house-sitters, found places that were wealthy enough to pay some teenage hick to mind the property, but not wealthy enough to afford someone that would actually _give a shit,_ or wealthy enough to have an around-the-clock alarm system _._ He picked a two-story mansion in the suburbs, an hour away from Shona’s place. For two whole days he cased it, and was then afforded the perfect opportunity when the young house-sitter fucked off with her much older boyfriend, probably to go get her cherry popped after a few bottles of cheap cornerstore liquor. He almost envied her youth.

_Almost._

He went in, raided the house. The rich motherfuckers had spare cash lying _everywhere,_ and a flimsy safe stowed at the back of the parents’ cupboard. He broke it open quick, efficient but not rushing, pleased when gold and diamonds glinted prettily at him. They looked like inheritance pieces. He could pawn these for a few hundred, maybe even a couple thousand. His smirk was elated and spiteful beneath his bandana, and he stood, stuffing the haul into his backpack.

On the way out, he grabbed a beer from the fridge. He resisted the urge to scrawl obscenities over the fridge door, just for the hell of it. He was a _professional_ , after all.

He jumped out the window he’d used to come in, had a deep pull of the beer when he landed. It was smooth, almost sweet, probably some organic locally-sourced shit that cost twice as much as the regular stuff. The flavour was tangy and sickly on his tongue.

He thought of Shona.

With a distasteful snarl, he tipped his head back and finished the beer, swallowing down the lot. Burping, he dropped it into the bins out front. The garbage truck would be coming around tomorrow, so he wouldn’t have to worry about the cops going through the bins and finding his DNA. Besides, the sitter probably wouldn’t be back for a while, if Tony had been right about her plans for the night.

Ignoring the pull of guilt inside him, a feeling that closely resembled _yearning,_ he took off into the night. Shona would get over it. She was used to losing out in life, and so was he.

There was no point being sentimental about what he couldn’t have.

 

***

 

All in all, the haul got Tony three thousand dollars in cash. A good fucking deal, even for him. He stopped in with Donna, a butch pawn broker with a history in pimping, got himself sorted in the back room of her shitty apartment. Her silence was bought with a fifty and a bottle of Jack Daniels, and she watched with bored disinterest as Tony laid his effects out and looked over what he had to work with.

“Missed your company, Tony. You’re a no-bullshit kinda guy. I like that.” Donna told him, pouring herself a shot. Her fingernails were painted a toxic blood-red, long and acrylic. They tapped against the shot glass, and the sound grated at Tony’s nerves. His irritation was partly due to the fact that he was running low on Testosterone. He only had enough to last him a week.

“You oughta stick around,” she continued, “We had fun, back in the day.”

He resisted the urge to laugh, because if there was one risk even _he_ wouldn’t take, it was making fun of Donna. She had put people in hospital for far less, and her rap sheet made Tony’s look like he was a grade schooler who threw rocks at windows. There was _no way_ he wanted to stick around. Donna was like dynamite. When she blew up, you simply didn’t fucking survive.

He packed everything away, tucking his money into a pocket he’d sewn into the lining of his bag. Donna watched from where she sat, all leather and silver piercings, dark eyes promising violence. It wasn’t personal, or even about him. She was like a fucking natural disaster, barely contained by human skin. She was a vampire. A sadist. She sucked you dry and felt no remorse.

“I need a supplier,” he said flatly, standing and hefting his bag up, “you know someone who can get T?”

She laughed coldly. “Who the fuck you think’s gonna be dealing that shit? Ain’t nobody wanting that over some good solid coke.”

He sighed, took a hundred out of his pocket. Her eyes lit up like fucking _candles._

“Yeah, I know a guy. Real hardass, he’ll get you anything if you pay enough. He’ll also _do_ anything if you pay enough. Know what I mean?”

Tony did. “I’m not looking for some lowdown hooker who deals on street corners, Donna.”

“This guy’s with the _Iron Crusaders_ , you smartass.” She held out her hand, fingers spread wide, salivating as her eyes stayed fixedly on the hundred. “His name’s Crash. I’ll give you his address, but I can’t guarantee he’s still there. The Crusaders head honcho keeps him on a pretty tight leash.”

“What makes you think he’ll deal to me, then?”

“He doesn’t always operate through the gang. He’s got his own connections. I think he runs a business on the side just out of spite. Figures a man would need a way to redeem his pride when he’s taking it up the ass as a form of employment.”

Tony handed the money over. “You better be telling me the truth.”

“Don’t fucking take that tone with me. You want the info or not?”

Tony sighed. He wanted to bite back, but arguing with Donna wouldn’t get him anywhere, and he didn't want a row of stitches for his trouble. The path of least resistance was his best bet.

“Yeah,” he said, “sure.”

 

 


	7. hisses like the feral cat he's seen, slithers like the snake he killed

Crash lived in East Texas.

Tony couldn’t get any information on him, which was a bad fucking sign, because that either meant he was too small time to bother with, or that he was _clever._ Smart people who were protected by gangs were always bad news, because they generally knew how to kill and didn’t hesitate. His story smelled bad too. Tricks were common in motorcycle gangs, but not _male_ tricks. In order to pimp himself out and survive the rampant homophobia that was common in almost every underground drug scene, he’d have to be bad.

 _Seriously_ bad.

Tony would have to fucking watch himself with this one. Going within an arm’s length of a motorcycle gang was stupid to begin with, but he didn’t have a choice. He _needed_ Testosterone before he could go into hiding again, and going through legal channels was not an option. LEDA would find him in a heartbeat. The smart thing to do, survival-wise, would be to go off Testosterone, but Tony refused to give up everything he’d fought for.

He'd rather die.

With that in mind, the threat didn't really seem so bad.

 

***

 

It took Tony six days to safely make it to Texas. He’d forgotten what a _pain in the ass_ it was to be on the wanted list. He was paranoid. He was tired. He was seeing ghosts, seeing Sammy’s face watching him from the shadows, suits floating through his dreams. Faceless men with strong shoulders and guns in their palms. He kept waking up in cold sweats, shaking, driving his fists through the walls and screaming at nothing.

He _missed_ Sammy.

And he hated being on the run. He hated being _alone_ in this. He hated the weight of their unseen faces, of Sarah’s smile, her eyes watching him whenever he tried to relax; he was haunted by those fucking paintings, his face repeated again and again, identical and _wrong_ beyond comprehension. He kept wondering whether he was even real, whether he was just a copy, whether everything he was doing was in vain because he was nothing more than a genetic photocopy.

But he knew how to deal with emptiness. He knew how to cope with depression.

He got angry.

He started bar fights, stole more money, took liquor from every house he raided. _I’m real,_ he told the world, his knuckles split and bleeding, a smile stretching his face into something monstrous.

_I’m real._

_There’s nobody else like me._

_I’m real._

 

 


	8. ain't we a pack of sorry mutineers

When Tony finally did make it to Crash’s digs, he wasn’t surprised by what he found.

He went in on foot, crouched down low in the long grass and watched. The place was a one-story concrete shack, complete with a rusted steel roof and plenty of crude graffiti, surrounded by an unmown lawn and yellowed weeds. The whole setup looked faded and grimy, like a lot of the places Tony had squatted in over the years. A little further down the dirt road was the Crusaders bar, and Donna _really_ had not been kidding when she’d said the boss kept Crash on a tight leash. It was kind of weird, having your junkie whore live so close, in some kind of shooting gallery doghouse setup. There was a fucked-up sort of domesticity about it.

The presumed boss himself came by on the same night that Tony arrived, rolling in on his Chopper. He was redheaded, with a big beard, and walked like he knew how to handle himself; Satan in his colours, insignia displayed proudly on the broad expanse of his back. He approached the door and an unseen figure greeted him, ushering him inside with an apparent lack of urgency.

Tony shrunk down in the grass, huffing out an shaky sigh. He’d seen killers before.

The threat level had just fucking _skyrocketed._

 

***

 

The biker stayed for over an hour, and Tony didn’t budge in all that time. His thighs ached, his ass was getting wet from mud, and his back was strained, but he knew that being noticed meant death. Motorbikes zoomed past on the road, roaring like demons, and Tony had to fend off a heart attack whenever headlights passed over him. When the redheaded guy finally emerged from the house, it was well and truly nighttime, but Tony didn’t miss the fact he was still zipping himself up as he strode out the door.

 _Well fuck,_ Tony thought dryly, _guess he just needed a pick-me-up._

He waited until the biker was gone, gave it ten minutes. When the sound of the motorbike had faded into the distance and darkness had settled across everything again, he started to make his way through the grass. He ran across the road, boots hard against bitumen, pulling a gun from beneath his flannel. He’d need to be packing if he was even going to _attempt_ to get this Crash dude to take him seriously.

He kept himself low, went around the back of the house. He could hear a shower running.

The back door was locked, so he took out his lockpick, worked it open smoothly. He kept his gun against his thigh, primed and ready. He didn’t _intend_ to kill this dealer (and he knew he would be in a hell of a lot of trouble if he did), but he didn’t particularly want to die either.

The door creaked when he swung it open, and he froze, ready to bolt. But the shower continued to run, and after a minute of terror he decided to press on.

The place was filthy and bare, clothes and a mattress shoved in the corner of the room Tony emerged into. A cross hung on the wall crookedly, like some kind of ironic statement, and the place _stunk_ of sweat, booze, drugs and vomit. Tony quickly ran through the room, crept into a hallway, full of unease. He walked on the edges of his feet, praying to god (or _whoever was listening)_ that his footfalls weren’t as loud as his paranoia said they were.

The shower splattered, the stream of water thin and inconsistent. That should’ve been his first warning.

He didn’t catch on until he was in the doorway of the bathroom, and was faced with an empty shower. It was only then that he saw the wet footprints tracked over the cracked tiles, and only then that his heart stopped, fear seizing him still. He'd  _fucked up._

Sharp metal slid over his neck, arms circling him, the gun yanked out of his hand- all in one smooth movement. He made a choked noise. The knife rested just above the hollow of his throat, and a mouth landed at his ear.

“You better have a fuckin’ good reason for bein’ here,” a voice drawled, easy and low, “or I’m gonna remove your vocal chords.”

 

 


	9. walking eggshells in his birdcage

Tony couldn’t feel his fingers. His heart was beating so fast that his veins had surely turned into battery acid. He was lightheaded.

“I’m-” he sucked in a breath, blinked rapidly and tried to _stay calm,_ “Donna sent me. The pawnbroker. She said you were a dealer. I just want some juice, okay?”

The knife shifted upwards a little, pressed deeper. Tony felt the skin of his throat break, shivered when blood started to trickle downwards, dripping onto the collar of his shirt.

“C’mon, man,” Tony tried again, voice starting to quiver now, “I’m on the run. I need Testosterone, and I was told you could get it for me.”

There was a pause. The longest fucking pause Tony had ever experienced. He held still, resisting the urge to swallow, saliva pooling on his tongue. Dizziness turned the room into a blur, made the cracks in the walls seem like trembling spiderwebs.

At long last, the knife disappeared. Tony sagged with relief.

He turned around, stiff as he tried to hide the tremors of fear pounding through him. Crash stood a pace away, still dripping from his shower, and Tony looked down out of instinct. He wrenched his eyes away before his gaze dropped below the thatch of hair on Crash’s abdomen.

“Christ,” he sighed, cheeks burning, “put some fucking clothes on.”

Crash regarded him with bored curiosity. He didn’t budge. There was a clump of wet hair stuck to his forehead, his face damp and eyes half-lidded- and shit, now Tony could understand how this guy had made it as a whore _and_ a killer. He was the most attractive motherfucker Tony had ever set eyes on. His face was sharp and angular, the flat surface of his stomach hard and solid, hips tapering down into an impressively sized cock. If it weren’t for the scars and tattoos, he’d have been a goddamn model. He didn't seem  _real._

“You got ten seconds to tell me why you didn’t use the front door.”

Tony glared at him. “Why the fuck do you _think?_ I didn’t want your _friends_ catching me by surprise. How was I to know you'd be so fucking jumpy.”

Crash didn’t move. His stillness was fucking unnerving.

“I’m telling the truth, asshole. Look, I just want some T, enough to last me a while. Can you get it, or not?”

Crash blinked slowly. “You’re one of them ladyboys, ain’t you.”

Tony’s lip curled into a snarl. The only thing holding him back from leaping forward and bashing this bastard's brain in was the fact he was outmatched and very clearly outgunned.

“ _Fuck_ you.”

Crash smiled. Or, his eyes tightened at the edges, and his mouth twitched. Tony couldn’t read him at all. Slowly, moving like a predator, Crash held up the gun.

“I’m keepin’ this.”

“Be my fucking _guest.”_ Tony spat.

“You try anything else, I kill you. Got it?”

Tony was furious. He was _beyond_ furious. But he needed Testosterone, and right now, this was his only option.

“Fine.”

Crash nodded, turned away. The fact he was naked didn’t seem to deter him at all.

“I’m gonna go finish my shower. Wait in the fuckin’ bedroom.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to write two of my favourite outlaws interacting, if I'm honest.


	10. shit kick around with your eyes to the ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  ~~holy shit i'm finally updating~~   
> 

Tony sat on a stained, dented plastic chair, the unsteady frame bending under his weight. There were holes at the bottom of the legs as if, at some stage, it had been bolted to the floor of some establishment in order to prevent thievery. Tony imagined that Crash, or maybe one of his fuckup friends, had stolen it purely to prove they could, high on a cocktail of drugs and alcohol. Made him wonder how much of this furniture was stolen. All of it, probably.

The entire building, though it was made of bricks, seemed to hiss and shake from gale force winds, cans and rubbish rattling around outside with every blast of air. Everything was dirty. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all turning a mouldy and repellent brown, the kind of colour that manifests when a child clumsily mixes all their paints together, or the kind that blooms beneath roadkill as it festers on tarmac. Bubbling flesh. Boiling blood. Hair and filth and teeth and brains.

Tony had elected not to sit on the bed, owing to the used condom resting atop the grime-covered mess that comprised Crash’s yellowed sheets. Recently used, it seemed. Probably courtesy of the redhead biker that he’d seen walking out of here only minutes ago.

Tony was shocked he’d even bothered to wrap himself up.

As if on cue, Crash emerged from his shower. He was wearing crusty jeans, that had perhaps once been black, but were now turning the same brown as everything else. His fly was undone and his chest was bare. Without speaking, he walked up to the bedside table, kneeling down. Tony watched him warily, fully aware what was about to occur.

They didn’t speak as Crash set up his hit, snorting up a solid amount of crystal from a crinkled length of tin foil. He grunted, swaying where he knelt, body undulating with the force of impact. It was only then that Tony noticed his gun, shoved down the back of Crash’s pants. For a moment he considered doing something rash, nonsensically outraged by the blatant disrespect shown towards _his_ motherfucking property. Then he remembered where he was. Then he remembered the cut on his neck, weeping small amounts of blood when he turned his head too far, and he remembered who the fuck he was dealing with.

A fucking tweaker.

For a moment, horrified by the mess around him and the bitch of a situation he’d just gotten into, Tony was seized by terror. His heart split clean in two, the feeling slicing through his chest and gripping his stomach.

But Crash was done getting high.

And it was time to get down to business.

“You finished?”

Tony injected sarcasm into his words, just to prove he had the balls. Crash rose to his feet, slow and with a quiet groan. He tipped his head towards the ceiling, sighing. He didn’t sound tired. He was _ascending._

When he was done communing with whatever higher power the drugs had permitted him to reach, he turned towards Tony. His eyes were flat.

“I will beat your ass, you talk to me like that again, boy.”

Tony scowled. It was very obvious that Crash was the most dangerous person in the room, at present, but he wouldn’t let his fear show.

“Just set me up,” he retorted firmly, “I’ll pay whatever.”

Crash looked into him for a long moment. Tony didn’t know what was going on inside his head, if there was anything at all. He eventually returned his attention to the bedside table, retrieving a lighter and a cigarette from a pile of crap and needles. The ashtray looked like it had barely survived a nuclear apocalypse. Cracked and broken. Tony found himself thinking of Shona, though he wasn’t sure why.

“Thing is,” Crash drawled, “your friend Donna? She ain’t quite given you the right information.”

He rolled the word _information_ around in his mouth like it tasted good. In another life he might’ve been on the radio, selling insurance packages and fast food heart attacks to the middle-class citizens of America. His voice sounded like sex. Dirty and crude and slow. Like a fuck in the back of a truck after a few rounds of quality dope.

“The hell d’you mean by that, man?”

“I got connections a’ight,” Crash continued calmly as he lit up, seeming to ignore the indignation in Tony’s tone, “but I don’t do this small-time shit. ‘Sides,” he threw the lighter back at the bedside table, “you’re gonna want an ongoin' supply. Best you go straight to the pharma dealer. For us both. Cut out the middle man. You feel me?”

That sounded reasonable. But Tony had been travelling for days and he wasn’t thinking straight, so he decided to be a smartass.

“What, your pimp doesn’t want you seeing other people?”

Crash considered that for a moment. It wasn't even apparent that he was insulted until he pulled Tony’s gun from the back of his pants, and pointed it between Tony’s eyes.

The world slowed to a crawl, the planet pausing. As if in respect, or fear, the wind outside fell silent. Tony didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

“Sorry, man, didn’t mean to- didn’t mean to piss you off, okay?”

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed steadily. Tony felt bile rising in his throat like a rock, vomit rumbling up from his intestines, pressing upwards in defiance of gravity. He held out his hands.

“Just- Just put the gun down. I’ll fuck off. Find someone else. This doesn’t have to go sideways.”

Crash didn’t reply.

"Let's just talk this out, yeah?" Tony forced a smile onto his face. His lips trembled uncontrollably as he tried to make the expression convincing. “C’mon. I’m sorry.”

No response.

Not even a twitch.

This man was going to kill him.

This man was going to end his life.

He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, _anything,_ but there was no bargaining with the emptiness that stood before him, wearing skin and bones and the shell of a human being, eyes as cold and empty as those of a shark. Tony’s pants felt warm, and the acidic smell of urine saturated the air as he pissed himself from the fear. He wanted to be ashamed, but he couldn’t find the strength. The weight of everything he had been through, all the struggles and the pain and the injustice, it had all come to a terrible, shitty climax, and this is where it would all end. He didn't even have the ability to fight it.

Tony closed his eyes and wondered what it felt like to die.

 

 


	11. can't distinguish between the nightmare and the joke

Crash laughed.

“Open your eyes man, fuck.”

Tony did. Crash kept laughing as he tucked the gun back into his jeans, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Tony was shaking. He couldn’t stop it.

Crash rummaged around the room. He located a paper and pen, scrawled down some information. Then he grabbed Tony’s hand, pressing the paper into his palm. Tony was going to vomit. He was going to fucking puke.

“Tell me your name.”

Tony tried to. Crash saw his voiceless attempt and chuckled. He leaned down, attractive face inches from Tony’s. When he spoke, words soft and unhurried, he may as well have been discussing the fucking weather.

“Tell me your name, or I shoot you."

“Tony,”

“Keep going.”

“Tony Saw- Sawicki.”

“Right. The guy you want is Dizzy, understand? Real name’s Daniel Adams. He’ll have access to all the shit you need. Motherfucker’s blackmailin’ half the doctors in America, makin’ more money than any other person I know. Not sure he’ll really give a shit ‘bout you, but hey, maybe if you ask nicely he’ll do you a solid. You tell anyone else I gave you this info, I’ll track you down, cut off your tongue, and shove it down your throat 'till you choke to death.”

Tony nodded. Crash laughed like he'd never seen anything more fucking comedic.

 

 

 

 


	12. tore the shirt right off his back

Tony walked away alive. Humiliated, ashamed, and cold, but alive.

He couldn’t stop shaking, but it wasn't from fear now.

It was anger.

 

 


	13. what the hell could be the matter with you?

Tony skulked back to his motel room a few towns over with the assistance of a stolen car, hood drawn up, walking stiffly. Some teenage kid looked at him funny, gave him a glance that lingered too long in all the wrong places _(where’s the goddamn breasts, is that a woman or a man, that chest looks flat but that face just ain’t right),_ so Tony got him up against a wall, fingers fisted in his ironed school shirt.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

He balked, eyes wide and frightened, and Tony felt a rush of adrenaline, something that he wished could outdo the shame and humiliation still lingering from his altercation with Crash. His jeans were damp and stiff from piss, sticking to his legs, so he dropped the kid down on the ground, levelled him with a kick to the abdomen, followed that up with a few punches to the face. He was being a bully. A fucking asshole. But the kid had clean clothes, a school insignia on his blazer, and shined shoes. Maybe, Tony convinced himself, he needed a beating or two, otherwise he’d never know what it felt like to be powerless. He’d never know what it felt like to be abused, to have nothing at all. That kind of knowledge, it never left you. It made you a  _survivor._

The boy cowered before him, his fair hair askew now, hanging down over his forehead. He looked up, blood starting to pour freely from his nose. Tony looked down at him until something sour started to boil in his stomach. Something full of regret.

“Learn some fucking _respect,”_ he spat, anyway.

The kid nodded.

 

***

 

Tony got back to his shitty hotel room. He checked his stuff and made sure it was all there, then took a shower. The pipes announced themselves with shrieks and groans, matched in kind by the sounds of loud sex from one of the neighbours. The man was grunting and blabbering on about the size of his dick. The girl was practically silent, and Tony thought about Crash. If nothing else, he took pleasure in knowing that the guy was probably being fucked six ways to Sunday every other day, just like any common whore. Just like the girl in that room, underneath some married man, wishing she was anywhere else.

The thought disgusted him more than it comforted him.

He stared around at the chipped shower tiles, considered the mould that spread across the ceiling like disease. He looked at his split knuckles. The blood, every time it was washed away by water, wept pink down along the slender angles of his arm, dripping from his elbow. He thought about his father, and his mother, and the many times he'd been bruised, battered, and hollowed out by their hatred. The world, in that moment, felt smaller and more repellent than it ever had. He wished he hadn’t beaten up that kid.

“Guess we’re all just messed up, huh,” he told the empty room, trying not to cry, his voice wavering.

The pair in the other room continued to fuck.

 

 


	14. can't trust a ceasefire bid

Tony knew he’d fucked up.

He’d told a stranger his name. Worse than that, he’d let a stranger get the drop on him, and been dumb enough to put his life in danger by wandering un-fucking-prepared into un-fucking-charted territory. It wasn’t like he’d never taken a risk in his life, but there was a huge difference between a calculated move and a gamble. Never mind. He’d only ever had one goal in mind, and he consoled himself with the knowledge that there was never any other way this could’ve played out.

He _needed_ Testosterone.

After his shower, which was more depressing than it was relieving, he emerged with a renewed sense of purpose. He did his last shot of T, packed what he’d brought with him (which amounted to one single rucksack’s worth of possessions), and placed his bag next to the battered couch by the motel room’s front windows. He took a seat. The streetlight outside, a crude and toxic orange, filtered through the grimy windows and amounted to a measly glow behind moth-eaten curtains. From his bag he produced an item he’d been carrying with him for months, waiting for the opportunity to use it; waiting for the day when, having fucked up as severely as he recently had, he would _need_ a change in identity.

The clippers sat ominously on the table before him, chord still tied with a strip of malleable plastic. Giving him time to consider what he was about to do.

He was doing this in the near-dark because, in all honesty, he didn’t want to see it happen. He’d fought for his identity. Fought to redefine the long hair that his parents saw as being beautiful and pretty, fought to see himself as a man, been stubborn and furious enough that he kept his hair long just to spite them. For so long he’d looked in the mirror and thought of warriors. Thought of battles and of resistance, of men who lived as they saw fit and fought just to survive. His long hair had started out as a statement, a petty way to prove a point, but had had ended up meaning a great deal more to him than that.

In truth, Tony had learned to love his hair.

He took a pair of scissors from his bag. Held a clump of hair in one hand, sliced it clean through before he could think twice.

The blades made a quiet _schick_ noise as the hair separated.

He sighed shakily in the dark, as if needing to verbally testify to the magnitude of this moment. The surreal stillness prevailed, allowing him no such fucking significance. It was just him, alone, acting this shit out in real life. This wasn’t a movie. This wasn’t being filmed and appreciated and understood. There was no music, no crescendo of meaning, no soundtrack to embody the loss he was currently experiencing. His hands trembled slightly, and he cut another length off, this time up near his scalp. Falling hair tickled his arm.

He kept going.

He kept going until he had choppy, uneven hair, clumps sticking up everywhere. A shiver danced across his neck, the skin there unused to being exposed to air this way. He felt cold. Bare. Part of him wanted to go to the bathroom and stare into the mirror for a while, but he knew that, if he did that, he might feel some measure of regret. No. Better to just get the fucking job done.

 

 

***

 

He cleaned up the piles of hair when he was done. Didn’t matter if he left some. The fact of the matter was that, if DYAD (with their multinational assets and fucking _endless_ connections) traced him to this room, then they’d find evidence of him being here no matter what efforts he made to the contrary. He was good at this. He knew how to run. He knew how to be practical about what he could, and could not, control. And, right now, changing his look and being mobile was the best way to go. He could do fuck-all to prevent them from finding his DNA. If he spent hours cleaning up after himself and there was a single goddamn spec left, they'd locate it anyway. No point stressing too much. He wasn't going to be lazy, but he wasn't going to be impractical either.

He stashed the scissors and clippers in his bag again. Then he took off his shirt, inhaling deeply and preparing himself.

When he was ready, he walked to the bathroom.

His reflection was lit only by a hanging bulb. The man who looked back at him from the mirror was nothing like Tony had expected, and nothing like the person he’d come to see himself as. Without the hair to soften it, the hardness of his face was truly obvious, and the meat of his clenched jaw looked prominent in the dim light. Shadows fell heavily from beneath his brows, forehead continuing uninterrupted to the hairline of his buzzcut, and beyond. Scars dotted his head, white lines earned from years of rough jobs and even rougher play. His eyes were dark and fucking _frightening,_ and Tony looked into them with a growing feeling of excitement.

Oh, yeah.

Oh, he _liked this._

He smirked, letting his teeth show. He moved his shoulders, watched the scars on his chest sway with the movement. Lifted his fists, tightened them beneath his chin, leaned forward and assumed a boxer’s stance. Feigned a few punches towards the mirror.

“You’re a hard motherfucker, Sawicki,” he praised himself.

After the humiliation he'd just received, it felt _good_ to see pride in his reflection's eyes. As he had several other times in his life, Tony experienced a swell of hope, a determination and certainty about the future, the feeling almost epiphanic in nature. He would go investigate this dealer that Crash had linked him with. He would get more T. He would find a place to hole up for a while, and then he would move again. And again. And again. He was back on the road, back to what he knew. He wouldn't take any more stupid fucking risks, and certainly wouldn't take his anger out on random kids just for the hell of it. He would be  _smarter._

It'd all work out  _fine._

 

 

 

 

THE END (FOR NOW)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see, the things is, i _could've_ made tony an indestructible hardass, but i reckon that would've done him a disservice. i'm more interested in making him human, and making him weak as well as strong. i'm more interested in having him experience a rollercoaster of success and failure, comfort and hardship, and seeing how he grows from that. him being trans is only a part of his identity, so i didn't want to focus on that entirely. wanted to craft a _whole_ person, if that makes sense.


	15. postscript

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIGHT OKAY i'm kinda obsessed with this fic and tony's new look, so (despite being unable to write fic rn), here's some sketchy af fanart. hope ya like.   
>  (((fyi– dizzy will be featuring pretty heavily in the sequel and i'm excited as fuck to someday write it, bc my fave dumpster hacker asshole doesnt get enough appreciation k thankz)))

 


End file.
